Explosions
by Satiah
Summary: Is a bomb merely an object of destruction? Deidara disagrees. The explosion itself represents both art and freedom, creating an exhilarating rush that makes one truly feel alive. Unfortunately, Sasori-danna disagrees with that definition, too.


Naruto © Masashi Kishimoto

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Bombs…

They are known as horrible weapons which contain the capability of wiping entire cities off the map. They are harbored tools of war because of their incredibly destructive power. Some can be fashioned by terrorists, creating cheap but effective tools. Most are used for hate. There are famous ones, yes, but they are only famous for the astounding death and damage dealt. But, really, who cares about a bomb? An explosive is just one more terrifying force of obliteration created by man in his unending search to destroy the world around him. Nothing more, and certainly, nothing less.

Explosions…

Explosions are said to be nothing more than controlled, chaotic destruction. They are seen as the ultimate end of something that once had a long, and most probably, beautiful life. They take down buildings and blast through mountains. They are dangerous; you really don't want to get too close to something that is about to blow itself sky-high. Sometimes, though, they can be beautiful. Such as in the case of a brilliantly dazzling firework display. But remember, explosions are always brief.

"I'm going out with a bang…"

Ever hear of it? Usually means death, often the result of someone's self-righteous attempt at vengeance. Or perhaps, if not leading to death or severe mutilation, the phrase refers to ending a brilliant idea with a really, really good possibility of failure. Or perhaps again, something as simple as the complete and utter destruction of an entire city block, as so often happens in the movies. Never is it the beginning; it always marks the grave at the end. A quick, flash-bang-boom end. Leading to annihilation via one horrific, catastrophic, and very powerful blast.

True art…

This is what you don't normally search for in such things. What people turn away from, mostly because they don't understand. They think of explosions as destructive, and it is hard for them to fathom the complete and sheer beauty in something that, according to them, only serves its purpose while doling out death like strangers give candy at Halloween. All of which is true, but, then again, you don't have to detonate a bomb in somebody's kid's treat bag in order to use it effectively.

Let me take you to my world…

No matter how many times you witness an explosion, you never get used to the exhilarating rush. You never grow numb or impartial to the experience. There are instincts, powerful ones, which tell you to run to a safe distance—to just get away! Overcoming these feelings is a feat in itself, and it is a fight you grit your teeth to win every time. Your stomach knots itself, and your palms begin to sweat. You feel hot and jittery, uncomfortable and nervous. Will the blast hit you? Will it burn you from here? Will the shrapnel kill you instead? It's hard to ignore these thoughts, racing quickly, never completely disappearing. You can't fight them. You just have to let them wash over you, take you in, and then you have to drown yourself behind them. Immerse yourself in that tangy fear of death—for no where else can you truly feel alive.

There is an incredible silence all around, and it presses on your ears as if your head has been trapped between a pair of heavy metallic weights. You are aware of it, even though the thunderous pounding of your heart threatens to drive you mad. You almost seem to be of two separate bodies, somehow still hooked into one. One body hears nothing but the pressing silence, while the other's head throbs overpoweringly with the sound of his own rushing blood. Like a strange, distorted sort of echo, you hear both. Your breath quickens, and you find it hard to breathe. You don't get enough air—your breathing is too shallow. You know of what's coming; you can feel it.

Your shoulders tense, your fingers grow glacier-cold. You tremble and blink rapidly. Your eyes shift constantly; everything is far too still, far too unnatural. But you know what's about to come. Your whole body seizes up; you can't move. You are paralyzed; frozen to the spot, even though you're sweating like mad. You can't look at it, you want to, but you know you can't. So, you give in to that one demanding instinct and shut your eyes. It's now or never.

And then—just like that—BOOM! The explosion goes off, rocketing past everything in its path. The ground shakes violently—you're grateful that you're in the air—but you can still feel the initial tremble. Is it in your head? You never know. The light is blinding—big, massive, and completely surrounding you, even through your closed eyes. Then the heat, oh that truly searing heat, blasts through you—burning your face, arms…anything you were foolish enough to leave exposed. The sound is deafening, like a CRACK…you don't hear much more. You know there are rumbles, more explosions, and various other noises, but you don't hear anything more. You seem to peacefully flat into a dream. A dream of intense light, a powerful breeze, and everything else moves in slow motion. You observe everything around you, drink it all in, but for a while you hear absolutely nothing. It all fades off into the background. . . . . .t i m e l e s s l y . . . .

And WHAM! You're back in your body, flying through the air, still on your feet, still alive. Time has resumed; your senses no longer deceive you. You hear the fires crackle, smell the charred remains of the hillside, see nothing but smoke. But you break through the man-made clouds quickly enough. You soar all around the smoke, surveying the damage, trying to regain your senses and your composure. You look delighted on the outside, but inside, you're scared shitless. Your heart has stopped, you can't breathe—your silly lungs are still seized up—your chest is tight, your legs are rubbery—and you're still sweating. Your hands and knees shake uncontrollably, but you still manage to stand, despite your lack of ability to breathe. The sounds and sights overwhelm you—too much, too much, too much. Yet, strangely, not enough. So you grin like the madman you are and just keep flying.

You're still alive! Your chest bubbles in delight. You sink to your knees in relief. Your body wants to go limp, but you're too excited to rest. Your mind races, your eyes light up. You lived through _that!_ You laugh joyfully—the nervousness still tingles your insides like running electricity—but you'll go crazy if you don't let _something_ out. The adrenaline rushes through your body, still leaving your brain buzzing, and you shout with everything you have left. _YES!_

You land on the ground and enthusiastically tug on the arms of the first person you see. _Did you see that?_ You ask. He nods, unimpressed. You're still too excited to notice. _Did you see how big that was? How perfect it was? Did you see? Did you see? _He doesn't care.

Eventually, the lack of response brings you down, and none too gently at that. You feel a bit less full, a bit more empty, your excitement somehow deflated. The rush of the experience leaves you as if it were naught but a ghost. Your heart pangs in remorse as the bright-vivid memory dulls and you want to scream out _why don't you see it?_ And for that matter, why doesn't he? Can't two people experience the same joys in this world? Why can't your very own partner share such powerful feelings of exuberance? Why doesn't he at least bother to _care_?

So he walks away from you, leaving your incredulous form in the distance.

But he tends to call over his shoulder, when he gets so far away. "Come on. I don't want to have to wait for you. I hate waiting."

And you look to the sky, with a shrug and a sigh, knowing that none of this will ever change. _He'll_ never change. He's too stubborn to appreciate your art; too wrapped up in himself to experience new things. It's always been like this and he'll never learn. So you stand there a lingering moment longer, still staring at the smoke-painted sky above you.

You know what's out there. Maybe he doesn't appreciate it, but you do. And you know that you'll never stop, no matter what he says, because you've already tasted your freedom. And it isn't the same as his. But it's always there; always waiting for you to come back. Time will never stop; there's always going to be another tomorrow—another chance for you to fly. The sky will never leave, the earth will never go, and the clay will never stop exploding. Not so long as _you_ live. So you pick up your hat, shove it on your head with a grin, and chase after your grumpy-ass partner.

You know there's still a next time—waiting out there—with your name on it.

_Let's go._


End file.
